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POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS

THE BROTHERS

"These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,

And they were butterflies to wheel about

Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,

Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,

Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,

Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,

Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.

But, for that moping son of idleness,

Why can he tarry yonder? In our church-yard

Is neither epitaph nor monument,

Tombstone nor name, only the turf we tread

And a few natural graves."

To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child,

Who, in the open air, with due accord

Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,

Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the

field
In which the parish chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and down the path,
That from his cottage to the church-yard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost
The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'Twas one well known to him in former days,

A shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year

Had left that calling, tempted to entrust

His expectations to the fickle winds

And perilous waters; with the mariners

A fellow-mariner; and so had fared

Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared

Among the mountains, and he in his heart

Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.

Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard

The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds

Of caves and trees: and when the regular wind

Between the tropics filled the steady sail,

And blew with the same breath through days and

weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome,

Even with the organs of his bodily eye,

Below him, in the bosom of the deep,

Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed

On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,

And shepherds clad in the same country grey

Which he himself had worn.1

And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he had returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he had borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. They were the last of all their race: and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary church-yard turned; That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added. He had found Another grave, near which a full half-hour He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope That he had seen this heap of turf before, That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him:

1 This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the Hurricane,

And oh! what joy this recollection now
Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
And everlasting hills themselves were changed.

By this the priest, who down the field had come,
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate
Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency.
Ay, thought the vicar, smiling to himself,
Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
Of the world's business to go wild alone:
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields,
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
The good man might have communed with himself,
But that the stranger, who had left the grave,
Approached; he recognised the priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life; Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you: And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish. I remember,

(For many years ago I passed this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side. 'Tis gone and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had!

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know,

That chasm is much the same.

Leonard. But, surely, yonder.

Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false. On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning; one hath disappeared, The other—left behind—is flowing still. For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them; a waterspout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; A wood is felled: and then for our own homes! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries, one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side. Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys!

Leonard. Yet your church-yard

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
To say that you are heedless of the past:

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